


Reasonable And Firm

by tsiviaravina



Series: Near Zero Contact [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Aftercare, Angst and Feels, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Crying, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hair-pulling, Introspection, LUNA Bars, Massage, Masturbation, NO BREATH PLAY!!!, Neck Kissing, Orders, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Safer Sex, Safewords, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Frustration, Slow Build, Spanking, Sparring, Stalking, Subspace, Swearing, Tiger Balm, Triggers, Vaginal Fingering, bribery with sports drinks, hand around throat, hand covering mouth, imaginary newspapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsiviaravina/pseuds/tsiviaravina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SkyeWard BDSM Porn With Very Little Plot. Takes place after S1E3: “The Asset”. If you don’t like the idea of SkyeWard with a side of BDSM, please just be on your way. *sigh* Is this a “Grant Ward Redemption Story”? Frankly, I don’t know, nor do I really care. Essentially, Skye realizes her bratty, inattentive behavior towards her S.O. could have gotten her “killed flatter than dead” (props go to phenomenal author Anne Bishop for that quote) in Malta, if it weren’t for pure, dumb luck—and Ward. A Serious Talk, Extra Sparring Sessions, and Smutty BDSM Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable And Firm

**Author's Note:**

> This started solely as a way to break out of severe writer’s block caused by surgery on my left ulnar nerve (which left me unable to type for about two weeks) and the controlled chaos of the holidays. Thank God my ears pricked up one night when re-watching AoS, Season One, and mentally stumbled over the phrase “Near Zero Contact”. Now *that* gave me the opportunity to “what-if” a dark, smutty, SkyeWard Porn With Very Little Plot That Exploded Into A Series. *This* is not that story. *This* sets the stage for the second story in what I guess now is gonna be a series, because I apparently don’t write one page when I can write sixteen. Or something like that. Is this a “Grant Ward Redemption Story”? Frankly, I don’t know, nor do I really care. FINALLY: If you don’t like the idea of SkyeWard with a side of BDSM, please just be on your way.

_  
_

  

_“No, no!—Please, please!”_

_The voice is Skye’s, but not how he had ever heard her before—completely, utterly terrified. Red clouds his vision as he catches a quick glimpse of three of Quinn’s men grabbing her and then he does what he’s been trained to do._

_Be the solution._

_In seconds, the only two people left standing are himself and Skye. She’s wet and barefoot and trembling and there’s nothing more he wants to do in that moment but hold her until she understands that she’s safe, but the ground rocks and he remembers Coulson._

_As he catches his breath, she runs to him, clinging to his vest, and he manages to ask, “Are you hurt?”_

_(If she is, he will find new and inventive ways to kill whoever touched her.)_

_She shakes her head. He places a hand on her shoulder; he looks into enormous frightened brown eyes._

_“Just follow my orders. I’ll get us out of here.”_

_She nods and lets go of his vest, grabbing his hand as they run to find Coulson and get the hell out of there. He gets a firmer grip on her hand._

_She’s his. He’s not going to lose her again._

***

 

He notices the day after the Malta mission.

 

She comes to watch him train.

 

For three nights straight.

 

In her bare feet, she doesn’t make a sound, but he can feel her watching him throwing kicks and punches against the heavy bag. What he could really use is a sparring partner. Skills that aren’t practiced, honed, perfected…are skills that are lost.

 

He stops his routine to grab a drink and watches her out of the corner of his eye. She’s still in her workout gear from her evening training session. She’s curled up in a shadowed corner on the catwalk, still watching him. Hell, she hasn’t even brought her laptop.

 

She couldn’t be a sparring _partner_ , but…no.

 

But she’s been much more serious about her training since her scare in Malta…

 

Damn it— _no_!

 

He might as well whack his own nose with a newspaper for all the good it does.

 

He wants her.

 

She’s _his_ , dammit!

 

From the minute she had started to banter with him during what was _supposed_ to be an interrogation…from the minute she had _literally_ stepped on his toes and jammed a finger into his chest…

 

From the minute he had seen her in that hot pink dress—no, no, and no!

 

_He_ is _her_ S.O.—nothing more, nothing less.

 

He quickly puts down the water bottle and attacks the bag for an extra half-hour, just so he won’t embarrass himself on the way to the shower. He notices she waits until he begins to pack everything up before slipping away.

 

***

 

The next evening, he keeps an eye out for her. He waits until she’s curled up in her preferred corner. She’s still in her workout gear, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. He stops his routine and takes out a bottle of water and a bottle of what he calls “that purple crap” that Skye likes to drink after training out of his bag, and looks straight at her.

 

He’s right—she freezes. Total deer in the headlights moment. It might be cute if he didn’t understand just how afraid she actually is.

 

“It’s okay, Skye,” he says, knowing just how to pitch his voice so it won’t be overheard by anyone else. “Come on down.” He dangles the bottle of sports drink. “Look—your favorite…”

 

He hears a rusty little chuckle and a sigh, but she does get up and comes down the stairs. She takes the bottle from him and smiles just a little as she cracks it open. He sits down so he’s not looming over her, giving her the choice as to where to sit to have this conversation.

 

She sighs again and slumps down cross-legged in front of him. She takes a drink.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

 

She flushes and looks down. “Quinn. He—it—I got scared.”

 

“Because you were alone—no comms, no backup?”

 

“Because I’d been a pain-in-the-ass since you decided to be my S.O. and I hadn’t paid attention so I didn’t know what to do!”

 

He stays quiet, not wanting to spook her, not wanting to make her run away. He looks down when she wipes at the moisture under her eyes. He doesn’t contradict her either.

 

Because she’s right. She’s streetwise and smart as hell, but that doesn’t mean shit when you’re suddenly looking down the barrel of a loaded gun.

 

“I was lucky. I was just…lucky. Lucky that you made me do that one move over and over and over again so I could do it without even thinking about it. Lucky that Quinn wanted to know so bad ‘what agenda’ S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent me in with so he didn’t just pull the trigger when he…when he found the compact.”

 

His stomach does a small roll on him when he hears that—when he finally realizes just how close he had come to finding her in a pool of her own blood.

 

“I should be dead, or God knows what else, but you were there for me. Both times. As my S.O. and then as my…savior, hero…pick a synonym.” The tears are coming steadily down her face now, making soft sounds as they drip off her chin and hit the mat. “You even held my hand.”

 

He reaches behind him without looking and pulls a small towel from his bag and passes it to her without a word. He watches her as she wipes her face, lets out a long, shuddering breath, and takes a drink.

 

He decides to risk it. He caps his water bottle and stands up. “Skye, come here, please,” he says quietly, seriously, indicating the spot directly in front of him. He watches her gather her courage, get up, and walk the few steps it takes until she’s standing in front of him.

 

He puts a hand on the back of her neck and a hand on her lower back and pulls her close. He feels her arms wrap around his chest, her head coming to rest over his heart. He presses his lips into her hair. “It scared the hell out of me, too,” he whispers to her. “So we do everything we can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

 

He feels her relax against him. “So when do I stop feeling like such an idiot?” she laughs.

 

“When you stop using the experience to beat yourself up and use it to make yourself stronger.” He leads her to the center of the mats where there’s plenty of room to fall safely. “And we do that tonight.”

 

She looks at him quizzically.

 

“You need to learn hand-to-hand. I need a sparring partner. You’ve been watching me for three straight nights. Time to see what you’ve learned, rookie.”

 

And his heart definitely does not give an extra “thump” when she smiles at him.

 

***

 

“Again.”

 

_Thump!_

“Sloppy. Again.”

 

_Thump!_

“You’re not guarding your left. Again.”

 

_Thump!_

It seems like he’s dropping her from an increased level of height each time she falls flat on her back. She hates herself for it, but she taps the mat twice, indicating that she needs a break. She sees him nod and knows that it’s safe to close her eyes for a brief moment before rolling over, pushing herself to her knees, and then to her feet. She has to take a minute to get her balance before she can walk over to her bag to grab her water bottle and a towel.

 

She chugs down half the bottle before she feels him wrap his hand around hers and pull it away. She almost snarls at him but lets him, knowing from previous experience that if she drinks the whole thing right now, she’ll end up puking it up if she falls the wrong way or if one of his (heavily pulled) blows catches her in the stomach.

 

She’s already too tired to spar, let alone clean up a puddle of her own vomit, so she stops drinking, wipes her face, neck, and chest with her towel, and walks in a small circle around the heavy bag, knowing (again, from experience) that if her temper flares in the next seven minutes, it’s better to have the bag as a target than Ward. At least the bag won’t laugh at her and put her on her ass again.

 

She feels a hand on her shoulder and stops walking to look at him. Shit. She’s panting as if she just finished a fucking marathon and he hasn’t even broken a sweat. Fuck him.

 

“What?” she snaps, risking the push-ups (or pull-ups) she’ll get as punishment for…well…generally being bitchy. But by now, she doesn’t give a fuck. _Nothing_ has gone right today, from her initial ice-cold shower (broken heating element somewhere, Fitz explained on his way to fix it) to having to do supply inventory all afternoon (the number of rolls of toilet paper alone, my _God_!) to forgetting she had thrown all her workout clothes in the washer _after_ training and _before_ breakfast, which meant she only had a half-hour to let everything run through the dryer, and _nothing_ is worse than trying to pull on a damp sports bra so you can be dumped on your ass repeatedly for twenty minutes straight.

 

Because you asked for it.

 

His lips twitch upwards.

 

Her eyes narrow.

 

He holds his hands up as she leans against the bag and defiantly takes another couple of swallows from her water bottle. “I come in peace,” he chuckles.

 

And he’s been sweet and adorable and iron-willed and physically unforgiving _all at once_ since the night they had talked about what happened in Malta.

     

He’s been encouraging but uncompromising. Praising her tenacity but critiquing her form.

 

And then he’s been doing these little…things.

 

A box of her favorite Luna bars on her bed.

 

Sitting down with her after dinner one night to watch _The Hunger Games_.

 

And carefully running his fingers over her each night to feel for hot spots, cramped muscles, overtaxed tendons—whatever. She knows why he’s doing it, but she hasn’t been laid or…anything else, for that matter, for too damn long and she’s going to get carpal tunnel pretty damn soon from taking care of things herself. And you can bet there’s _nothing_ in the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbooks to tell you what to do when you’re in a near-constant state of sexual frustration because your S.O. just happens to be built like…well…like Ward.

 

But it’s not his fault and he _has_ been helping her. He works her so hard that she can barely shower, swallow her dinner (that he usually cooks, and what’s up with that anyway?), and pass out in her bunk. She’s too exhausted to have her usual set of nightmares anymore.

 

So she sighs and closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. Push-ups, pull-ups, your choice. I’m just…”

 

“Exhausted? Achy? Tense? Frustrated?” She nods without opening her eyes and is surprised to find she’s holding back tears.

 

“Come on, rookie,” he says, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders and guiding her away from the workout equipment and the sparring area. He stops, rummages in his bag, and unfurls a long, brightly colored beach towel.

 

“ _Finding Nemo_ , Ward?” She can’t help but laugh a little.

 

“It’s the biggest towel I have that I don’t care about whether it gets messy. Now take off your T-shirt and lay down on your stomach.” He pats the towel.

 

She flushes.

 

He sighs impatiently. “I’m not making a pass—you’ve got your sports bra on. I’m trying to help. Will you let me?” he asks. She pulls her T-shirt off and tosses it in the general direction of her bag. She walks over and lays down on her stomach, the mat and softness of the towel underneath her making her relatively comfy.

 

“Here,” he says, not unkindly, dropping some ibuprofen tablets in her hand and passing her a bottle of her purple crap. “Take those and drink that. We’re done sparring for the day.” She opens her mouth to protest but he clamps a hand over her mouth. “Just shut up and do what I say for a change, okay?” He removes his hand and watches as her pupils widen just a bit at his gesture and his tone. Interesting, especially since she immediately takes the pills and polishes off the drink.

 

“Lay back down,” he commands and damn if she doesn’t keep her mouth shut and does as she’s told.

 

“You are not in the right mindspace for sparring today,” he continues. “You’ve been pushing yourself a little too hard. Time for a break,” he says in his “No Arguments” tone of voice. She just closes her eyes, listens to him, and nods when it’s appropriate. Suddenly she feels herself mentally slipping—no! Not here, not now, not with...her S.O., for God’s sake. Pull it together, she orders herself, opening her eyes and watching as he unscrews the cap on a rather large jar of Tiger Balm.

 

She chuckles and he raises an eyebrow at her. “Nothing. Not laughing at you. Just didn’t know it came in economy size. Could have saved myself some money.”

 

He smiles at her, rubs some into his hands, and starts at her neck.

 

She’s fucked.

 

She got a neck rub one time from Jemma after spending an hour and a half fixing some firmware that had gone all wonky in the lab at about three in the morning. _That_ had been a pretty great reward—Jemma’s hands are small enough to get in the hard to reach places, but they’re soft and incredibly strong at the same time—she grabbed every tight muscle in Skye’s neck, smoothed each one out, and put each one back exactly where it belonged. Plus, Jemma knows anatomy and physiology down to every last muscle and nerve, so, bonus there.

 

But Ward is just— _damn_!

 

His hands are so much larger and warmer and he has calluses in different spots from handling different weapons. She knows that these hands, these wonderful hands that are warm and firm and sure, rubbing Tiger Balm into every inch of exposed skin, leaving her boneless, relaxed, and a little tingly, are also deadly weapons.

 

But not to her.

 

And damn if she doesn’t love that fact.

 

It’s like some dark, sleek, predator—a panther, well, cliché, but she’s tired—has come up to her in the middle of the jungle and is winding around her, all warmth and smoothness and muscle.

 

It makes her wonder as his hands seem to find every sore spot on her neck, shoulders, back, and arms if he’d ever…

 

She sighs, part of it contentment, part of it resignation. No. Bad Skye.

 

But just when she thinks he’s going to stop, he starts on her hands—her hands! No one has _ever_ massaged her hands like this and she bites back what would have probably been a pornographic moan on her part when he works his thumbs into her left palm.

 

_Goddamn it!_

 

So is so fucked. Or not, as the case may be.

 

***

 

She’s perfectly silent, except for an occasional soft sigh.

 

Shit.

 

He’s drawing out the massage just to hear more of those sighs, to see more tension lift from her face, to get to watch her with her eyes closed, at rest, for just a little longer.

 

He wonders about her sudden obedience. This is Skye, after all.

 

But when he had gotten impatient enough to slap a hand over that smart mouth—he could almost feel her slump in relief, at letting someone else be in charge, dictate her actions and not fight it…

 

What the _hell!_ He slaps himself on the nose with the imaginary newspaper again.

 

He finishes her right hand and lays her arm down gently, and then he realizes she’s asleep.

 

Well, shit.

 

He chuckles, and checks the time. He figures he can do about twenty minutes of his own routine before he wakes Skye up and sends her toddling back to her bunk.

 

***

 

Ten minutes later, Skye blinks sleepily. What the hell—

 

Oh, yeah. The massage. From Ward. With the hands.

 

And she fell asleep, apparently.

 

She can hear him working out against the heavy bag and she carefully turns over, trying not to make a sound. His back is to her and she gets a really, really bad idea. One of her bad ideas that’s so bad that it’s almost good.

 

She eases herself upright and starts moving towards him…

 

***

 

Ten minutes in he stops for a minute to catch his breath. He leans against the bag for a minute. Then he’ll towel off, grab some water, check on Skye—

 

“BOO!” comes a voice from behind him, along with fingers jabbing into his (extremely ticklish) sides.

 

He doesn’t even think—he just reacts.

 

***

 

_Holy crap!_

 

She manages to duck and jump back so she doesn’t get hit by fists or feet, but he does that damned leg sweep thing they’ve been working on and—

 

_Thud!_

 

But this time, he has her _completely_ pinned down, unable to move _at all_ , almost unable to draw a breath, and damn, doesn’t _that_ just press all the right buttons. Oh, she’s been made, all right.

 

He feels her muscles relax the minute they lock eyes. She goes all wonderfully soft and yielding and pliant under him, not resisting even a little bit.

 

He has enough control to keep himself from getting hard. Now he has to find out if she’s going to be the one thing he hates—a bratty bottom. With her mouth, she could very well be, and that would ruin everything.

 

He tightens his grip on her wrists just a bit, and decides that if this is how she wants to play it, he’ll up the ante.

 

“Figure out a safeword. Now.”

 

He’s looking into her eyes and can see her pupils go slightly wider, but the corners of her mouth are twitching up into a smile or a laugh.

 

Damn it, he’s not going to let her ruin this for the both of them.

 

He tightens his grip around her wrists with his right hand until he hears her gasp and then gently, slowly drags his left hand up her body, between her breasts, until he wraps it lightly around her throat.

 

Suddenly, with no warning, her body goes limp underneath his and when he looks into her eyes again, her pupils are blown wide.

 

He looks down at her. Yes, he’s sure she could be a bratty bottom—bad-mouthing her top at every opportunity and ending up topping from the bottom—but this display shows him what she really wants—and needs.

 

“Skye?” he says softly, still looking into her eyes.

 

A beat of silence. “Yes,” she responds in a soft voice he’s never heard from her before.

 

“Yes, sir,” he corrects gently.

 

“Yes, sir,” she quickly replies.

 

“Can you give me a safeword to use? Otherwise, I’m going to stop, care for you while you come out of sub space, and make sure you’re tucked in for the night and we’ll talk more tomorrow.” He studies her eyes as he speaks, watching to make sure she understands him.

 

She swallows, once. “Lola, sir. My safeword is Lola.”

 

He smiles a bit at that. Even fairly deep in sub space, she’s still Skye, which is what he wants.

 

“We’ll use the ‘traffic-light’ system. Have you ever used it before?” he asks her, still looking into her eyes.

 

“Yes, sir,” she whispers back. He can tell she’s dropped even deeper. He’ll have to be careful.

 

“’Green’ means ‘keep going’, ‘yellow’ means ‘slow down’, and ‘red’ means ‘stop’. When you safeword, the scene stops completely. I will _never_ be angry with you for safewording during a scene. I will _always_ stop the scene and take care of you when you safeword during a scene. A _good_ sub, a _smart_ sub, a _strong_ sub uses her safeword when it becomes necessary.” He stops for a moment, letting the words sink in through the fog of Skye’s sub space.

 

“Now,” he says to her. “Will I be angry with you if you use your safeword?”

 

“No, sir,” she answers.

 

He smiles, moves his left hand so he can support himself, and brushes her lips with his. He’s satisfied when he hears a small whimper when he pulls away.

 

“And what kind of sub uses her safeword, Skye?”

 

“A good sub uses her safeword; a smart sub uses her safeword; a strong sub uses her safeword, sir.”

 

He moves slightly so he can cup the back of her head in his hand and finally kisses her firmly and deeply, a thrill going through him when she opens her mouth to him, trying to press herself against him. He releases her wrists so he can encircle her throat with his hand, and is amazed to hear her let out a contented sigh. He’s hard now, and positions himself so he can grind himself between her thighs. She immediately adjusts herself so she can wrap her legs around him and rock her hips in time with his movements.

 

He pulls away from her, hearing her soft whimper of protest.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers to her, when she settles.

 

“Thank you, sir.” Her eyes are still closed and he can tell she’s drifting, kept here only by his voice, his touch. She’s obviously not new to this—she admitted as much when she told him she knew how the “traffic-light” system worked. But he’s curious to hear about who initially took her in hand.

 

But that’s a question for another time.

 

“Skye,” he gently prompts, pulling her back to the present moment. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

 

She obeys, looking into his eyes.

 

“You have been very, very good.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” she answers, her eyes never leaving his.

 

“I’d like to give you a reward,” he murmurs into her ear. “What do you want that I can give to you right now?”

 

He looks at her again, a frown of concentration on her face.

 

“A promise,” she says softly.

 

“What do you want me to promise?” he asks, a bit surprised at the request.

 

“You won’t leave me. Even if I mess up. I _always_ mess up,” she replies, sobbing softly at the end. “Promise that you’ll punish me, but that you won’t leave me!” He realizes that she’s fisting her hands in his T-shirt, and is starting to break down as she comes up out of sub space.

 

He sits up and pulls her, unresisting, into his lap. He adjusts the angle of her head so she can hear his heart beating. He wraps his arms around her tightly, placing one hand gently against her neck. He waits until she lets out a long, shuddering sigh and relaxes against him.

 

“I can’t promise that I’ll never leave—I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and that means following orders, going on missions, even…even being reassigned. But I _can_ promise that I will not leave you of my own choice—that I will stay, even if you ‘mess up’. But if you ‘mess up’, you will accept _my_ choice of punishment, as long as it doesn’t hit a hard limit. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir,” she sighs, her breath ghosting over his collarbone. She raises her hand to stroke his—the one that’s pressed gently against her throat. She inhales, as if to speak, then stops herself.

 

“What is it, Skye?” he asks her.

 

“Will you collar me?” she whispers. “Not to wear all the time, but…” Her voice gradually tapers off.

 

“I will let you _earn_ your collar,” he tells her. “It won’t be easy. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a bastard when I top,” he warns with a chuckle.

 

He feels, rather than hears her laugh. “I’ve been told I’m a bitch when I bottom, sir.”

 

He muffles his laughter in her hair. She snuggles even closer into him, resting her hand on his chest, happy she’s made him laugh—happy she’s made him happy, even in some small way.

 

And then, still chuckling, he begins to press small kisses down her neck, pulling her hair aside as he works his way down to her shoulder. She clamps her mouth shut on a rather loud moan and shivers. Her neck is wonderfully sensitive and an amazing erogenous zone, which is why, when she is bottoming long-term for someone, she loves to wear their collar.

 

He notices her reaction and, without warning, has her flat on her back again, and is yanking her hair out of the way, so he can lick, suck, and—gently—bite all the flesh from the top of her spine to her collarbone. She’s a trembling, breathless, sweat-soaked mess by the time he’s done with her, her eyes closed, whispering, “Please…please…please…” over and over again.

 

“Please what?” he chuckles into her ear, sucking sharply on the lobe.

 

She hisses a breath through clenched teeth. “Please pin me down and fuck me until I can’t walk, sir,” she whispers back. What the hell, she figures, somewhere in the part of her brain that’s still functional. It may be clichéd, but it’s what she’s wanted since he manhandled her out of her van and on to the Bus.

 

She’s frightened for a moment when he doesn’t move; doesn’t breathe. Then he stands up, tossing her over his shoulder, and is walking fast towards his bunk as she scrabbles for purchase on his shoulder to keep herself from falling. “Shit!” she whispers, when Ward hoists her into a more secure position, and gets a sharp smack on the ass, sending a jolt of pleasure through her.

 

“Watch your mouth,” he warns softly.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” she replies swiftly. God, she can tell that she’s soaked herself straight through her panties. They make it into his bunk where he dumps her on the bed and turns to lock the door.

 

“Strip. Now.”

 

She doesn’t say anything—she simply does as she’s told and does as she’s been taught. She strips down quickly, but neatly, folding her clothing and tucking it away in a corner of the bunk. When she looks up, she sees that he’s done the same and _fuck_ , is he fucking gorgeous. She licks her lips; sees his lips quirk up in a smug grin as he watches her ogling him.

 

“Skye?” he murmurs as he steps closer to her, close enough to place a hand around her neck. Her eyes automatically start to close and she feels her walls clench on air and more moisture is trickling down the inside of her thighs.

 

“Skye,” he repeats, with a chuckle in his voice. “What _aren’t_ you doing?”

 

Her mind stumbles over that question for a moment, but thank God, her body remembers what to do and she automatically drops into a kneeling position at his feet, thighs spread, back straight, head down.

 

He watches her for a moment, then gently adjusts her position to what he expects from her—her thighs spread a bit wider, her back perfectly straight, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. “Good girl,” he tells her when he’s finished. He drops to one knee in front of her and strokes between her legs. She opens her thighs even more for him. “Very good, Skye,” he tells her as he finds out that she is trimmed and shaved. He’ll make sure she gets a full wax as soon as possible. She lets out the tiniest of whimpers when he explores her with one, then two fingers. He didn’t think he could get any harder, but when he feels how wet she is, how she clenches desperately around his fingers, he feels like he could come just from watching her whimper and ride his hand.

 

He hears her begin to pant as he gently massages surprisingly tight inner muscles. He has an acute sense of smell and he’s been smelling her arousal faintly for some time now. But now that there are no clothes in the way, he inhales sharply through his nose, and smells her—smells _Skye_ —and that’s suddenly all he _can_ smell, making him tangle a hand in the roots of her hair, bringing her head up for a kiss that he’s sure will bruise her mouth, but fuck it because she is kissing him back, mouth open, tongue searching for his.

 

He pulls his hand out from inside her and out of her hair, picks her up, and tosses her on the bed. She is immediately on her back, extending her hands above her head and spreading her thighs apart.

 

There is no foreplay—none is necessary. There’s a brief moment of cold when he smooths the condom down around his cock, but that’s remedied when he enters her, angling her hips so her legs are wrapped around his waist, and he’s buried inside her. He presses his forehead against her shoulder for a minute to catch his breath, to regain some control over himself so he doesn’t ruin this by coming as instantly as a sixteen year-old. She seems to understand and doesn’t move.

 

He’s hot inside her, and fills her full, stretching her out and almost brushing against her cervix. She waits for him to move, for him to take the lead. Then he’s supporting most of his weight on his elbows as he pins her wrists with his hands, pulls back, and slams into her. Her eyes close and her mouth opens and she’s gasping—swallowing, gulping in air as it’s forced out of her with every single one of Ward’s animalistic thrusts.

 

He pulls back a bit, and slides one hand between them so he can reach her clit which is swollen and wet and so incredibly sensitive as he strokes her in time with his thrusts, which are somehow deeper at this angle and she whines desperately.

 

She hears his command of, “Come for me, Skye,” over the pounding of the blood in her ears and wrenches a hand out of his grip so she can slap a hand over her mouth as she does come, instantly and savagely, the high-pitched keening noise coming out of her muffled by her hand.

 

He fucks her through the whole thing, and then does it again, and again, and again as she writhes and begs and pleads beneath him, completely shameless in her need for him, for his hand now gentle but firm around her throat, the fingers of his other hand stroking her clit, his cock moving inside her: all of it making her fall deeper and deeper into her sub space. However, tears start to leak out from under her eyelids when he demands a fifth, then a sixth orgasm from her and she swallows back a sob of exhaustion and overstimulation.

 

“Please, sir…please, sir…” she begs, breathless, not knowing what she’s pleading for anymore.

 

“Last one—I’ll be right there with you,” he whispers into her ear, bringing one of her hands down so she can encircle the base of his cock with her fingers. And somehow she manages to ride out his pleasure as her own and she _does_ come when he does, collapsing under the soothing pressure of his weight, her hands clinging to his shoulders, her muscles trembling with aftershocks. She links her ankles together to keep him pressed against her, his head somehow resting on her shoulder and his lips against her neck, his cock still pulsing inside her.

 

They lay like that for a while, neither wanting to move, to break the spell they both seem to be under. She realizes as she starts drifting up and out of her sub space, that she feels very, very good—a way she hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. “Thank you,” she whispers into the silence, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t correct her. He simply kisses the skin he can reach, chuckling when she shivers. He reaches back and unlocks her ankles, reluctantly pulling out of and away from her. He wraps the condom in a tissue and tosses it in the trash. He pulls the covers down and gets in bed behind her, but, Skye being Skye, she manages to somehow tangle their limbs so their bodies are practically intertwined, yet comfortable all at the same time.

 

His mouth is pressed against the back of her neck and he can’t resist brushing his lips over the skin at the nape of her neck and tracing the fragile bumps at the top of her spine with his tongue. She whimpers and squirms her hips back into him; he responds by placing a hand firmly on her hip, holding her still while he continues to work on taking her apart with his lips and tongue on this one small patch of skin. When he brings his other hand up to wrap softly around her throat, her breath calms and her muscles start to go limp.

 

He takes a moment to look down at her—her head thrown back, her skin pale against the dark cloud of her hair, his hand gently, possessively wrapped around her throat—and he’s so completely fucked and he knows it, because he throws off the covers and roughly rolls her on to her stomach. He hears her gasp, but she spreads her thighs apart at the gentle prompting of his fingers. He explores her with one finger, and when he finds her practically dripping, he can’t resist and flips her onto her back.

 

“Pillow,” he orders shortly, and by the grace of God she understands him and passes him the pillow under her head. He tucks it under her hips, spreads her folds apart with his fingers, and wraps his mouth and tongue around her clit, sucking firmly one moment only to tease her with tiny licks the next.

 

Her hips and thighs tremble and spasm, completely out of her control. “Please, sir…” she hears herself begging. When that doesn’t work, when all he does his continue to hold her down and use his mouth to drive her absolutely fucking insane, her voice gets hoarse as she changes her pleading to a string of straight filth, which earns her a sharp slap on the inside of each thigh.

 

“Don’t make me gag you,” he growls.

 

She’s in that level of sub space where her mouth starts getting her into trouble. “Then put my mouth to better use, _sir_ ,” she taunts.

 

She’s amazed to hear him chuckle. “Do you want me to stop, give you the spanking you deserve, and send you back to your own bunk or do you want my cock down your throat?”

 

“I want your cock down my throat, sir,” she replies quickly and respectfully, wanting it, needing it to keep her in check, to help get her back down farther. What she’s not expecting is for him to swivel his body over hers until that gorgeous cock of his is bumping her chin.

 

“Get to work,” he orders sharply, delving between her legs again, making her whimper, open her mouth, and take as much of him in as she can.

 

He stops his teasing to press his head against her thigh and groans softly. “ _Christ_ , Skye,” he whispers as he tries to keep his hips from moving. But he can feel one of her hands wrapped around the base of his cock, while her other hand is very gently cupping and stroking his balls. Her tongue is caressing every inch of him she can reach and she’s making these little, contented noises in the back of her throat that somehow vibrate against him as she works on thoroughly sucking him off.

 

He takes three deep breaths to clear his head so he can get back to his own task, and somehow manages to suck her clit and slip in two fingers. She moans around him, but doesn’t stop, so neither does he. She’s so wet, so relaxed, that he eases in a third finger, his thrusts shallow but slow. She whimpers and tries to thrust her hips against his hand and he gives her thigh a sharp slap as a warning to keep still.

 

She’s trying as best she can, but she’s slipping farther down and between his mouth working her over and his cock in her mouth, all she wants is to be fucked farther down again.

 

With a reluctant whimper she releases his cock only to hear herself pleading with him to fuck her, making all kinds of promises about how good she’ll be, when to her immense relief, somehow he flips himself around, tosses the pillow off the bed, rolls another condom over his cock, shoves her on all fours and slams himself home deep inside her.

 

“Thank you, sir…thank you, sir,” she finds herself repeating over and over with every move, with every thrust. Then somehow they’re sitting up, his cock still deep inside her, his left arm holding her still, his right hand stroking the soft skin of her throat.

 

She bites back a moan and waits for him to set the pace and suddenly she’s slamming down onto him as he’s thrusting up into her and he sinks his hand into her hair, twisting her head and giving her a series of bruising, burning kisses.

 

Her head is limp against his shoulder and his hand is rubbing and pinching her clit and she’s coming fast and hard against him, just barely aware that he makes two or three sharp thrusts and comes while she’s still throbbing around him, muffling his moan in her hair. “ _Jesus_ , Skye…” he pants.

 

She’s absolutely silent as he gently lifts her off of him and lays her on the bed. Her eyes are closed and she doesn’t move as he quickly cleans up and snaps the top sheet and blanket back over the mattress. He takes the pillow and tucks it under her head. He slips into bed beside her, curling around her. She’s either dropped pretty far, is plain worn-out, or both. He suspects it’s both.

 

He’s sated for the time being, but it always takes him time to come down from topping. He spends the time running his hands through her tangled curls, taking in the shadows under her eyes (he’ll need to make sure she starts getting more sleep), and watching her eyes flicker back and forth under closed lids, wondering what she’s seeing in her dreams.

 

He gently pulls her close and she drapes herself over him in her sleep, nuzzling until her head is resting on his chest. Something tightens in his throat, but he swallows it down, pressing his face into her hair, smiling when he can smell himself on her. He lets himself drift, listening to her breathing, not expecting to fall asleep as quickly as he does.

 

***

 

He wakes before she does, and he finds he enjoys having her wrapped around him…which is a nice surprise considering he ordinarily prefers to sleep alone. He stretches a bit, hearing a few pops and crackles as he does so. He wraps his arms around her again and presses a kiss into her hair.

 

He’s considering waking her when his stomach lets out a loud growl, making him laugh quietly. Then he watches as she nuzzles his chest, rubs her eyes, and blinks at him. Her smile is soft and shy.

 

“Hey,” he says, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

 

“Hey,” she replies, pressing a kiss under his jaw.

 

“Shower, then food, then a nap before training,” he says with deceptive softness, but she knows it’s an order—steel wrapped in velvet. She looks up at him, her hand tucked in his.

 

“Can I get a kiss before we have to go back to being S.O. and trainee?” she asks.

 

He smiles at her and damn if her heart doesn’t go pitter-pat. “I was hoping for kisses in the shower, but if you prefer to shower alone…” he says, laughter in his voice.

 

She grins at him, her eyes twinkling, before she abandons all pretense and practically climbs the man to kiss him senseless.

 

Hmmm...

 

Guys in suits…not so bad.   


End file.
